When you blame millennials for the current state of our nation, you are disregarding the environment we've learn to survive in. Cookies hanging over our heads, blindly following the sound of people celebrating empty dreams. Dreams recited by our fathers. I am not trying to place blame on you, as I know you too have been infected by these unspoken rules. You too had a cookie hanging over your head. But I want you to know that our cookies just look different. As time passes recipes’ recalibrate and cookies transform. And I feel for you, maybe you’re still chasing the cookie, maybe it’s getting harder to chase, or maybe you ate the cookie and still felt hungry. But if we really want to have this conversation, about the current state of our nation, I’m gonna need for you to stop talking about cell phones and 20 something year olds and start talking about where these cookies came from!
I once saw a nation on fire, just their home a family's desire. The government was corrupted by liars, with an economy trapped in quagmires? To end the schism they gave Wall Street socialism, leaving 'The People' impoverished and tired.
Prologue. Brown skin. Flat nose. Short. I was a free land for you to take. For once I was in glee. Until you had me taken and used. You have forgotten who you are.
Chapter 1. A blank page. A mystery. Who were you really?
Chapter 2. White skin. Pointed Nose. Tall. A variety of people I didn't recognize. You welcomed them while some fought with blood. This is what you've done. You have sold who you are.
Chapter 3. The never-ending battle. The battle within oneself. You told yourself you are free. There are no battles, no blood, no freedom. You have forgotten what freedom is.
Chapter 4. There are battles. There is blood. Yet you have chosen to close your eyes. Is this the love you have proclaimed for me? You have helped no one with your steels and wood.
Chapter 5. You freed yourselves from the dictator. But there is still no peace at hand. You all drown from the deep flood. Yet you'd rather race each other to the shore. Haven't you realized? You are not in the sea.
Chapter 6. You are not at land either. At least not ours. You step at our muddy lands yet your mind is far from home. You scrub your skin until its white. To you, your skin is dirt.
Chapter 7. Across the land, some eyes are red. Their hands are rough with dirt, clutching unto a plastic that smells. It dives unto their minds and they smiled. I wasn't able to protect them when you saw them with a bullet in their heads.
Chapter 8. Mothers and Fathers that I raised Have left me and you as well To be able to put zero's in your wallets They fight with their hands so rough You. For you. But what about me? How about me?
Chapter 9. It's an unending cycle of a triangular shape. You fall. I fall. Some rise. You all have lost hope and wish to leave me so soon. Is this really who you are? Will I never find who I truly am?
Chapter 10. An empty page. The writer of the book grew tired. He didn't continue— or he never got to. No one really knew.
Epilogue. The page was not there. Ripped like a masterpiece. A painting of blood along its back.
I am an open book, ready for anyone to read. Yet you have flipped me close and left me to fill with dust. You have left me on the bookshelf and slept in a locked room.